


There Can Be No Grave

by keepcalmsmile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, but I hope it'll get less sad as it goes on, not going to lie this is sad, points for knowing where the title came from, post-return but written before season 3 aired, so doesn't take any of those events into account
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1266445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepcalmsmile/pseuds/keepcalmsmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after Sherlock's incredible return, everyone believed that he was brilliant enough to fake his own death. But only John believed that he was brilliant enough to fake it twice. 3 or 4-shot, please pay attention to the genres.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Again

**Author's Note:**

> This is a "what-if" scenario that came into my head and refused to leave. It's a post-return story, but I started writing it before Series 3, so it doesn't take any of those events into account.

 “SHERLOCK!” John roared, throwing his covers off and pulling his bathrobe on. “WHY do you think it’s a good idea to fire guns at…” he glanced at the clock, “Two seventeen in the morning!” He stomped down the stairs, ready to pry the Browning from his perpetually bored flat mate's fingers… _again_. John scowled at the Consulting Detective’s silence as he stumbled down the stairs; undoubtedly, Sherlock was lounging in his armchair…too bored to _speak_.

Another gunshot. “SHER—“ …the name died on John’s lips as he reached the first floor, and several things happened at once

 The door slammed shut, accompanied by the indistinct sound of feet pounding down the stairs, a loud, frantic voice that John vaguely recognized as his own screamed for Mrs. Hudson to call an ambulance, and Sherlock Holmes crumpled to the ground, groping indistinctly at the blood now gushing from his chest.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, and then he was there, kneeling at his best friend’s side and pressing the navy blue scarf on the wounds. Two bullet holes: one in the lower abdomen, one in left side of the chest-probably the lung, John’s medical mind supplied…and still he could not stop the blood. How could such a thin man bleed so much? The warm, sticky redness was blossoming across Sherlock’s white shirt, flowing onto his black jacket, seeping onto his trousers, spilling across the carpet…and his eyes…his grey-blue eyes were staring at the redness…and they were afraid.

" _Sherlock_!”

The grey-blue eyes met the pale brown ones. The grey-blue eyes softened; the fear vanished: “Jo-hn,” Sherlock slurred.

 John forced his lips into a smile and pressed down harder on the wounds…so much red... “I’m here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s lips curved up into a small smile. Slowly, so very slowly, he lifted his pale hand and touched John’s cheek, and the doctor vaguely realized that the redness was on his face now, and decided in the same instant that he did not care, “I’m here,” he repeated.

Sherlock’s smile broadened, as arrogant as ever, “Co’rse,” he slurred, “You’re… _Jo’hn…”_

The hand slid down John’s cheek and landed with a soft _thud_ on the floor.

“Not again,” John whispered, salty tears mingling with the redness on his cheek as he frantically started pounding down on Sherlock’s chest, “Oh Sherlock, _please_ not again.”

Silence.

 

A moment and an eternity passed before thundering broke the silence. John hated and welcomed it at once, because the flat was never this quiet, and yet it seemed wrong for there ever to be sound in it again. The thundering stopped and Mycroft was there, standing in the doorway and staring at John, and then at the man John was rocking in his lap _Odd,_ John thought, _I don’t remember picking him up_ , but the thought quickly fled again, replaced with his single, unrelenting plea. _Not again. Please, Sherlock, not again._

“Sherlock,” Mycroft Holmes croaked, and John would never have believed such a small and frightened sound could have passed through the Elder Holmes’ lips. Then John watched as Mycroft broke. He watched as something small, and delicate, and infinitely precious that no one ever believed existed in Sherlock’s older brother, believed _could_ exist there, shattered into a million pieces, and Mycroft took half a step before his knees gave out and he sank unceremoniously to the floor.

More thundering, sharp and measured this time, and Anthea, or whoever she was, appeared in the doorway. She glanced once at the Holmes in John’s arms, then at the Holmes on the floor, before leaving again, raising her phone to her ear.

Time passed. A lot. A little. It did not matter. The silence was suffocating. John did not think he could tolerate anything else.

Thundering again. Rolling thunder. Loud, raging, unrelenting. At least half a dozen people racing as fast as they could up the stairs. Then the thundering stopped. Lestrade, Donovan, and other faces John neither cared about nor recognized stopped in the doorway too.           

 Something between a strangled cry and a moan seeped through Lestrade’s lips. The Detective Inspector went pale, then a decidedly unhealthy shade of green. Some small, detached corner of John’s mind wondered if he was going to be sick, and then it wondered why…Lestrade had seen plenty of bodies before…then again…it was an awful lot of blood. It was all over John now: his cheek, his hair, his arms, his chest. There was so much…so much…just like before… _Not again Sherlock, please…_

More thundering. More people. They were coming like waves now, and they always moved so fast, so very fast…until they got to the room…then they moved very slowly. There was no need to be fast anymore.

There were so many of them. So many faces swimming in and out of view, tiptoeing around each other as if they were in some type of ghostly dance… and so much noise! So many voices, their meaningless words bleeding together into an inane cacophony. _Idiots!_ John thought, _Don’t you know Sherlock can’t think when you’re being so loud.! He can’t think…he can’t….he can’t…he needs… he needs you to_ “SHUT UP!” the words exploded into the room, and finally, _finally_ everyone _stopped_. Stopped moving, stopped speaking. Silence returned. _I see why you like it_ , John thought as a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. He closed his eyes and buried his face in Sherlock’s curls. They smelled of shampoo and iron. _What experiment are you up to with iron?_ John wondered vaguely, _I’ll have to ask when you wake up…make sure it doesn’t wreck the flat…_

The noise started again, quieter, softer this time, but there. John scowled, debating whether it was worth the effort to lift his head and tell the noisemaker to shut up again.

“John.”

_Shut up_.

“John.”

_Leave me alone._

“John!” the voice was sharper now, militaristic, “John, look at me.”

Blearily, John raised his head. Lestrade was there, crouched in front of him. “John,” he repeated, softer this time. “You need to let go, John. There is nothing you can do.”

John frowned. _Let go? Why do I need to let go? Nothing I can do about what?_ He did not understand what Lestrade was saying, but he also decided that he did not really care enough to ask. Instead, he said, “You’re crying.”

It was the truth. The DI’s face was glossy with tears. _Why?_ John wondered. Lestrade closed his eyes, just for a moment. Then he opened them again and said, even more softly, “You’re right, John. I am.”

“Why?” John murmured. He frowned again. There was a red stain on the hem of Lestrade’s coat. Odd. “Why’ve you got blood on your coat?”

Lestrade breathed in sharply and closed his eyes again. There seemed to be more tears now. “John,” he said slowly, “Who are you holding?”

“No one,” John said waspishly. _What a stupid question._ The DI was beginning to annoy him now.

“John. I need you to look down at who you are holding.”

“No.”

“John, this is important. I need you to look down.”

“NO!”

“John!”

Lestrade was ordering him again. John looked down and found, to his surprise, that Sherlock was in his arms. _People are really going to talk now._ He thought about saying this to Sherlock, but the detective was asleep for once, so John decided it could wait until he woke up.

Strange, though, John had never seen Sherlock sleep with his eyes open.

And why were they both covered in red?

“No,” John choked, “No. No. No. No!” A jumble of images and sounds from years ago--or was it just a few minutes-- assaulted him. A gun shot, a phone call, people, pavement, the flat, the rooftop, thundering, red, red, red, red... “NO!”

And then there were other people there. Nameless, faceless, evil people who were prying Sherlock away and there were people pulling him back from the sidewalk, preventing him from seeing the body…

No. They must not do that. “STOP IT! STOP IT!” John was shouting as loud as he could, but the people were not listening, “STOP IT! NO! NO! _NO!”_

“John.”

There were arms around him now, holding him tight. John tried to fight, to push the man away. He had to get to Sherlock…he had…he had too…“John,” Lestrade repeated, and suddenly John was too tired to fight anymore…he was so tired…so very, very tired. He was trembling, trembling and sobbing, sobbing harder than he had in his entire life. He buried his face in Lestrade’s shoulder, the hot, heavy tears running into the DI’s coat. Vaguely, he realized that Lestrade must be covered in red now too, and that the DI did not care either.

“Not again,” he pleaded as Lestrade held him a little tighter, “Please, please not _again_!”

There was no reply.

***

 

“It was a hit,” Lestrade explained wearily, “It had to do with his current case.” They were assembled in a rough circle in Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room: Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and John. Molly clutched Mrs. Hudson’s hand, tears streaming down both of their faces. Lestrade was attempting to appear professional, but his eyes were red. Mycroft…Mycroft did not do anything; he stared at the ground, tapping the floor with his umbrella.

“The drug trafficking one?” John sat up a little straighter, meeting Lestrade’s eyes for the first time that day, “That’s absurd!”

It was a mundane case by anyone’s standards—Sherlock’s especially—trying to expose connections between the network of a frankly ordinary drug lord and the administrations of several Universities. It required hours of monotonous research and provided relatively little opportunity for the detective to show off his vast intelligence, yet Sherlock had accepted Lestrade’s desperate plea on behalf of one of the other agents at the Yard without hesitation. It was only after Sherlock had flung himself into the case for a week and a half--including blasting recordings of witness’ testimony at full volume at three in the morning--that John finally demanded to know why Sherlock was so interested.

Sherlock had blinked, once, twice, three times then said, his voice as bored and condescending as ever, “I got most of my drugs from this cartel, especially when I was in University…they were…and still are…the only supplier to most of Britain’s Universities.” Then he turned back to the pile of documents that had captured his attention for the past nine hours, and John was left staring, dumbfounded, at the man who, after all these years, still managed to surprise him.

There was no hidden puzzle, no Moriarty-like mastermind. The case was dull, and yet Sherlock cared…about _these_ men, even though others would rise in their place, about the only decision he truly regretted, about keeping others from making that same mistake.

Dazed by the enormity of this revelation, John stared at his best friend and realized he was looking at a good man.

Fat lot of good it had done him.

Lestrade was still speaking. “He was getting too close to several drug lords operating in the UK…apparently they pooled their resources to organize the hit.” Lestrade set his jaw, “However, I have been assured that, using the information Sherlock compiled, the individuals in question, as well as their organizations, have been eliminated.”

Mycroft looked up, and gave a single, sharp nod. His icy eyes blazed with a ferocity that could only be described as savagery. John had only seen such a look once before.

_They were assembled in a rough circle in Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room: Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and John. Molly clutched Mrs. Hudson’s hand, tears streaming down both of their faces. Lestrade was attempting to appear professional, but his eyes were red. Mycroft…Mycroft did not do anything; he stared at the ground, tapping the floor with his umbrella. Lestrade rubbed his eyes, “My division will ensure the funeral is private; there will be no uninvited guests. The evidence to prove his innocence is there, and I am assured it will all be collected, sorted, and presented to the press within the next 72 hours.”_

_Mycroft looked up and gave them a single, cold nod. His icy eyes blazed with that same savagery, the inhuman guilt and suffering that John knew, even if no one else did, was plaguing him after Sherlock’s death._

But Sherlock had not been dead. Three years later, he had returned, just as dramatically as he had left. It had all been an elaborate ruse to destroy Moriarty’s web…and to save them.

Because Sherlock had cared, and he had been clever. He had not died, and John had believed they were going to end up exchanging insults as wizened old men, decades into the future.

Only two years after Sherlock’s return, and here they were, sitting in a circle and making plans for his funeral…again.

But Sherlock had not been dead…he had not…he had not…he _was_ not…

John laughed. It started slowly… a low, quiet chuckle that steadily grew louder and more uncontrollable until he was trembling with mirth.

“John!” Molly’s voice was high and strangled; John vaguely realized he was terrifying her. He did not care.

“ _Idiots_ ,” he gasped between gales of laughter. He glanced up and saw, as he expected, that the rest of the group was staring at him with varying degrees of alarm and…in Molly’s case at least….outright fear…everyone except Mycroft. He was still staring at the floor.

“ _Idiots!”_ John repeated, “Sherlock’s right…we’re all _idiots!_ ”

“John,” Lestrade said slowly, as if he were addressing a panicked animal, “I know. We should have protected him better…”

John shook his head, “No, you don’t get it! Don’t you see?”

“See what, John?” Lestrade sighed.

“He’s not dead!”

Silence crashed upon the group. John knew--he could see it on their panicked faces--that they did not believe him. Only Mycroft was not staring at him as if he belonged in a mental institution; he just clutched his umbrella a little tighter and continued his examination of the floor.

“John,” Lestrade said in that same, deliberately soothing voice, “John. I’m sorry. But Sherlock’s d-“

“You just think that because you’re an idiot!”

“John,” Lestrade did not seem angry, which only increased John’s fury. They were still treating him like a child, “John, there is no way he could fake his own shooting.”

“We thought there was no way he could fake his own suicide,” John said furiously, “But he _did!_ ” He looked meaningfully at Molly.

The pathologist was trembling, though John was not sure why, “N-no John,” she spluttered, her voice firm, yet terrified, “Sher-Sherlock did not ask me to help him fake his death again.”

_She did not admit it before_ _either_ , John reminded himself; he grunted and turned away from her.

“Why would he do this again?” Mrs. Hudson pleaded. John felt a small twinge of regret as he saw her fear…fear for him…but Sherlock was more important.

“Same reason he did it before,” John explained. _Why were they refusing to_ see? “Lestrade said the drug lords were closing in on him. He knew they were planning to kill him, probably the rest of us too, so Sherlock decided to fake his death so he could finish destroying their networks unnoticed…just like he did with Moriarty!”

A wave of objections assaulted him; even Mrs. Hudson seemed to be the closest John had ever heard her come to shouting: “He wouldn’t! John! Be reasonable! Impossible!” It was making the doctor’s head pound; he closed his eyes in an attempt to drown out the din. He knew he was right.

“Stop.”

Silence again. John opened his eyes and saw, to his surprise, that the group was no longer staring at him…but at Mycroft. The Elder Holmes had finally looked up and was staring at the group with broken, yet somehow even more terrifying, eyes.

“John believes my brother may still be alive,” Mycroft’s words were cold, crisp, as detached as ever, as if he were mediating a petty squabble between toddlers rather than a dispute over the death or survival of the only person in the world he cared about, “What right have we to disabuse him of that notion?”

“But Mycroft!” all three voices cried as one.

Mycroft lifted a hand for silence; it came.

“It is what John believes,” he said, “And we have no right, or need, to amend that…there is even a certain logic to his view,” Molly’s mouth opened again in protest, but Mycroft stood and continued speaking before she had the chance to voice her objection, “Sherlock has been declared dead, and the funeral will continue as planned. Whether John feels the need to attend…” Mycroft glanced at John, and there was a strange, unidentifiable, emotion reflected in his eyes…almost like understanding, “That is entirely up to him,” and without another word, he strode out of the room.

 


	2. The Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John knew Sherlock would return, he simply needed to wait.

“You shouldn’t be here, John.”

John looked up from the test results he was examining. Sarah was standing in the doorway of his office, frowning at him. The pity in her eyes was painfully obvious, “Why shouldn’t I be?” he replied.

Sarah hesitated, “May I come in?”

John nodded, and Sarah entered the office properly, closing the door silently behind her. Unbidden, she seated herself in the chair opposite John’s desk, “I know the funeral’s today, John.”

Briefly, John remembered his and Sarah’s short relationship. It had been years ago, now, they had both long overcome any awkwardness they felt working in the same office. Sarah had a new husband, and John….John had Sherlock, and while his feelings for his best friend were not romantic, it had been enough. He had been happy.

He was happy. Sherlock was alive. Gone for now, yes, but alive.

Sarah was waiting for a response. She was worried about his mental health, as his friend, yes, but also as his boss. She wanted to know if she could trust him around patients. She would not like it when John told her why he was not attending the funeral.

He decided to evade the issue, “I know.”

“You need to be there, John,” her voice was kind, honestly sympathetic, but firm.

John returned his attention to the medical tests, “I’ve already been to his funeral, thanks.”

A pause. “John,” she began carefully, “I know I can’t imagine how hard this is for you, but it is important that you give yourself time to heal. You need closure, and seeing the…body...will honestly help.”

“No, it _won’t_.”

“John…” Sarah began again.

“He’s not dead,” John said, looking up from the test records just in time to see the shock and fear embed themselves in Sarah’s features, “I know you think I’m crazy, but he’s not dead. He faked it, again, and there’s no point going to stare at another fake corpse.”

“Jo-“ Sarah began, and John could practically _see_ the arguments forming in her mind. Her mouth snapped shut as her medical instincts took over; she was enough of a professional to decide that such a conversation was far beyond her depth, but also enough to decide that she could not afford to have him around her patients. “John,” she began again, “Have you considered that you might need to take some time off. You’ve been through a traumatic ordeal.”

“I’m fine,” John said shortly.

“I’m afraid I’m not so sure,” Sarah said, “And I’m sorry John, but until I _am_ sure that you are alright, I cannot allow you to interact with patients.”

John was not surprised, but that did not mean he was not bitter: “You’re firing me because I know Sherlock’s alive.”

“No…John…”

The door opened, “Doctor,” a nervous secretary squeaked, “There’s someone on the phone for you.”

“Tell them I will call them back in a couple minutes, Janice,” Sarah sighed, “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Doctor, they say it’s urgent…and that it concerns Doctor Watson…” she flashed John a nervous glance. John idly wondered what Mycroft had said that frightened her so much, or perhaps it simply the Elder Holmes’ voice.

Sarah hesitated, “Alright,” she sighed, “I’ll be back in a couple minutes, John.”

“Alright,” John said, unconcerned. Mycroft certainly did come in handy sometimes.

***

Less than five minutes later, Sarah reentered, not bothering to knock. John glanced up from his papers; her glare was cold, livid, and resigned, “You have powerful friends,” she said flatly.

“I’m not sure friend is the right word for him,” John said, despite himself.

“Well _whoever_ he is,” Sarah spat, “He has made it abundantly clear that you are, against all ethical codes, to remain here as long as you wish.” She did not wait for his response. Turning on her heel, she stormed towards to door, hesitated, and turned back to him, “I’m sorry for what happened to you, John. I know, better than most, how much Sherlock meant to you, but you need to see sense!” She did not give him a chance to reply, not that John intended to, and left, slamming the door behind her.

John returned his attention to the test results.

***

It was no surprise to see Mycroft sitting in John’s armchair when the doctor returned to 221B that evening. He seemed to be engaged, yet again, in a deep study of his umbrella, but he looked up the moment John entered the room, “Ah John,” he said with what was clearly supposed to be his familiar, cordial smile. It was almost convincing

“Good evening Mycroft,” John said, taking the chair closest to Mycroft, but not Sherlock’s, “How was the funeral?”

“Dreadfully dull,” Mycroft said sardonically, “But far better attended than last time.”

“Yes,” John agreed bitterly, “I’m sure there were plenty of important people crying for the cameras over the body of the great civic hero who did not care about the suicidal fraud three years ago.”

“Quite,” Mycroft murmured.

The silence lasted half a moment, “Why are you here?” John demanded, trying to sound more belligerent than he felt.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow, “I am sure we can both agree that you rather owe me.”

“I do,” John admitted, “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

Mycroft gave the doctor a tight smile and indicated a tray balanced on the coffee table between them, “Tea?”

They drank their tea slowly and in comfortable silence. Every once in a while, one of them would bring up a random memory associated with Sherlock, they would reminisce briefly, and fall back into silence. Half an hour later, Mycroft was getting to his feet, “Have a pleasant evening, John.”

John also stood, “I will.”

Mycroft nodded and turned to leave.

“Mycroft.”

He turned, fixing John with his usual, disinterested gaze, except, John realized, it was still wrong, still broken, somehow, “Yes, Doctor Watson.”

John swallowed. Suddenly the words would not come. It was only when Mycroft gave a small grunt of impatience that John was finally able to splutter, “Do you think he’s alive?”

Mycroft hesitated, that broken look more pronounced than ever, “No,” he said finally, “I examined every detail, thought through every eventuality, and I do not see any way he could have done it.” He paused: “Does that change your opinion?”

“Not at all,” John was mildly surprised to realize that it was the truth.

Mycroft smiled, a small, satisfied smile, “I thought as much.” He paused again, “And it is certainly far more…appealing to think that I am the one who is mistaken,” and without another word, he descended the stairs and vanished from sight.

***

Precisely one month later, the Elder Holmes was once again waiting in John’s armchair when the doctor returned from work.

Without a word, John seated himself in the kitchen chair that was waiting for him as Mycroft poured them both tea. Three chairs: one from the kitchen, his own armchair, and Sherlock’s, were arranged in a rough triangle.

 _It’s like we’re having tea with a ghost_ John mused, then _No, like we’re waiting for someone._

It was the truth.

“So is this going to become a habit then?” he finally asked as he sipped his tea.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “Do you object?”

He did not.

***

Mycroft never stayed long, an hour at the most, but he was always there, on the same day each month, ready with a tray of Britain’s finest brew as John climbed up the stairs to 221B. It was always the same. John would sit. Mycroft would pour tea. They would sit in easy silence until one of them, it depended on whose day had been the worst, but one of them would bring up Sherlock.

At first, they both pretended that John’s once-again absent flat mate was not the reason they were having tea in the first place, that something besides a connection to the world’s only Consulting Detective was strong enough to place an ex-army doctor and the human embodiment of the British government in a room together for tea once a month. With this shared pretense, they initially approached the topic in a round-about manner. Mycroft would bring up a (not too classified) puzzle that his department was currently grappling with. John would mention a random snippet of gossip about Mrs. Hudson’s daughter or Molly’s fiancé, but the conversation always quickly turned to Sherlock.

After the first few afternoons, however, they no longer bothered. They would not even exchange greetings. John would sit. Mycroft would pour tea. Eventually, one of them would begin. Mycroft would mention some detail of Sherlock’s childhood, which John quickly learned was nearly as bizarre as his adult life. John would muse over his best friend’s current whereabouts in his fight against his new nemesis. Both would recall old battles, victories, and defeats: The Study in Pink, The Woman, The Fall, and both would smile fondly over Sherlock’s outrageous habits: the nicotine patches, the experiments, the skull. John wondered if Sherlock had scavenged a violin in the course of his current travels. Mycroft agreed that he probably had.

Mycroft never said it, but John knew he looked forward to the monthly visits. The doctor knew that Mycroft still refused to believe Sherlock was alive, but that he liked, even needed, to pretend he believed it, even if was only for an hour.

John hated to admit it, but he looked forward to the visits too.

He had no doubt Sherlock was alive, but that did not mean he did not _miss_ the idiot, miss him so much he would sometimes pause in the middle of the street or a shop or even at the surgery when a wave of nostalgia overwhelmed him. It would be sparked by the smallest detail: a child with curly black hair, a long coat, a violin case, even sometimes the blasted milk, yet John could not admit this to anyone. Even the few people who still associated with him on a regular basis, mainly Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Mike Stamford, refused to talk about Sherlock, at least with John. Mycroft knew, though, Mycroft understood; he felt it too. Yes, Mycroft’s visits were a highlight of the month; they helped fend off the loneliness, the bitterness (Would it kill Sherlock to send just one letter?), and reminded John that Sherlock, indeed, would be back.

John simply needed to wait.

***

“Doctor Watson, isn’t it?”

John glanced up from his book and his tuna salad in surprise and decided that he must be hallucinating.

A woman was standing in front of him. Her hand was resting on the back of the empty chair. Her lips were turned up in what was unmistakably a smile.

She even knew his name.

It took a few seconds for John to place her: a new doctor that Sarah had just hired. John was fairly certain she had started earlier that week.

Ah. That would explain it then; perhaps there had not yet been time for her to hear the gossip about him.

While Sarah, albeit under duress, had allowed John to stay, that did not mean that she, and by extension the rest of the staff, did not still think he was insane. It was partially his own fault, John admitted; he never shied away from telling others that he k new Sherlock was still alive. While, over the past twelve months ( _only a year, really?)_ , they had grudgingly admitted that John was more than capable of handling himself around patients, they still shied away from him, as if he were carrying some sort of disease. It was nothing malicious, John knew; he simply made them uncomfortable by disturbing their absolute view of the world. To be honest, he did not really care.

The woman’s (Mary, right?) lips were moving, and John realized with a jolt that she was asking if she could sit down.

“Uh, sure,” he said, hoping he did not come off too brusquely.

It did not seem he had. Mary’s smile broadened (and a very pretty smile it was too), and she sat, pulling out a Caesar salad, “I noticed you’re reading Poe,” she said, nodding at the book now hanging limply from John’s hand, “He’s one of my favorites.”

It took several seconds for John to remember how to engage in small talk, “Uh…yea,” he said. Then, realizing this was hardly an interesting response, he continued, “I read him a lot when I was a kid, but I hadn’t picked it up again until quite recently.”

“It’s easy to forget how good he is,” Mary said, twirling her fork thoughtfully in her salad, “Most people only see the horror stories, but he was one of the few men who was able create beauty out of darkness.”

John chuckled, “To be honest, I think I only see the horror stories too.”

“No,” Mary mused, her chocolate brown eyes piercing John’s in a way that he had not experienced for….well since…”I think you do,” she said matter-of-factly. Then she smiled again, and the conversation continued.

It was wonderful, John admitted to himself. Mary was clever and funny and kind, and John would have asked her on a date if he had not known that all too soon she would hear the rumors and quickly decide that he was far too insane for her to spend her lunch hour with him, much less any time outside of work.

“You should buy me a drink sometime,” Mary said matter-of-factly as she packed up the remains of her lunch (John noticed that she had not had much time to eat her salad, neither had he, when it came to that).

John sighed…might as well get it over with, better than her hearing it from one of the secretaries, “Look,” he said, “I’d love to, really I would, but I don’t think you’d really like me much.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Isn’t that for me to decide?”

“Listen…”

“No, John, _you_ listen,” John realized vaguely that Mary was ordering him. No one had dared, or bothered, to do that since the second fake funeral. Strange, he had not realized how much he missed it. Mary’s eyes were piercing him again, “I _know_. They told me everything about you the day I arrived.”

John blinked, and then he felt his blood began to boil. So she was not simply naïve, she was trying to wrangle information out of him, as if he was some freak show, “I’m not going to talk about it,” he said flatly.

“John, if the reason I decided to eat lunch with you was to try and extract every horrific detail of your ordeal from you, I would have tried to do so long ago.”

“Then why are you here?” John was not sure if his harshness was from anger or confusion.

Mary shrugged, “I like Edgar Allen Poe.”

“Seriously, Mary…”

“I am completely serious, John,” Mary said, and her steady gaze told him it was the truth, “I like a man who spends his lunch breaks reading Poe, and a man who will tell a five-year old silly stories so she isn’t afraid to get some shots.”

Carrie Princette, she had been John’s last patient before lunch, there for a routine round of shots before starting school. Normally the nurse took care of things like that, but when he heard Carrie howling in terror for three solid minutes, John had pocked his head in and asked if he could help. After receiving a grateful nod from the nurse, he had come in and started talking to the girl. He told her a couple stories, about neon elephants, if he remembered correctly, until she was laughing too hard to be afraid of the needle. “How do you know about that?” he asked.

“I heard her mother telling Carrie’s father about it over the phone as they left the office, and Carrie was still babbling to the nurse about the nice elephant man.”

For a moment, John’s lips curled up into something that resembled a smile--she had been a nice kid--but he quickly straightened his expression, “That’s hardly a reason to…”

“ _Listen_ , John,” and Mary’s expression allowed no argument, “I like a man who reads Poe. I respect a man who served his country until he could not possibly do any more. I admire a man who is loyal enough to watch his best friend die, twice, and still has the guts to tell the world that he knows his friend is actually still alive, no matter what anyone else says. But a man who has done all of that, and seen all of that, and still tells a five-year old a story about elephants so she is not afraid to get her shots anymore…” she pulled a slip of paper out of her pocket, “ _That_ is the kind of man I want to buy me a drink.”

She held the paper out to John.

He took it.

***

As he walked to Mary’s one evening (it took half an hour and gave him an excuse to stretch his legs) six months later, John wondered when thoughts of marrying her had left the realm of idle fantasy and became a very real and increasingly appealing prospect. No matter what, he could no longer ignore the fact that in the course of six months not one but two people dominated John’s thoughts: two poles, at once identical and opposite, that grounded, even sustained him.

Even though one of them was still too much of a lazy git to bother to write, just once.

He had mentioned this to Mycroft that day at their monthly tea appointment, after an enjoyable half-hour spent recounting some of Sherlock’s most outrageous experiments. The Elder Holmes had peered at John carefully. John noticed that he was finally losing weight, “Do you still believe in him?”

John had blinked in surprise. Surely, by now the answer was obvious, “Of course,” he said matter-of-factly, “It’s not like it’s a surprise that he’s so inconsiderate.”

Mycroft had simply nodded, but John had seen the relief embedded in his usually emotionless features, even though John knew that Mycroft still believed that Sherlock had died.

It seemed he was believing for both of them.

 

To his mild surprise, as John approached Mary’s flat he saw that someone was already leaving it. His surprise only increased when he saw that it was Sarah.

“Hello John,” she said gruffly as they passed each other, fixing him with a strangely defiant, almost accusatory look. Before John could respond, she was already charging down the street. Mary emerged from the flat after Sarah, her face drawn, uncharacteristically, into a frown.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, running up the steps and wondering if he needed to track down Sarah and rip her apart for whatever she said to Mary.

“Sarah swung by to offer some _friendly_ advice,” Mary said flatly. John immediately knew what they had been discussing.

“Oh,” he said lamely, “What did she say.”

“She told me about when you two were dating … more precisely, why you broke up.”

John felt his blood begin to boil and seethe in fury, and, he had to admit, unease. What if Mary listened? “Sherlock,” he said shortly.

Mary nodded, “She said it was like dealing with a second lover…we both know he wasn’t,” Mary overrode him before John could object, “But emotionally, she said she was always competing with him, and eventually, it became too much, so she ended it.”

“I see,” John said. He vaguely realized that he was gripping the stair railing for support, “What did you say?”

“I told her I was always good at sharing,” Mary said simply, “And she informed me that I needed to take this seriously, that she knew I thought that eventually, once we were married or had children or whatever, you would finally accept that Sherlock was dead and would devote all your affection to me.”

John forgot how to breathe.

“And she said that she didn’t think you ever would, that I would be competing with a ghost for the rest of my life.”

“And what did you say?” John breathed.

Mary gave him an affectionate smile, “I told her to shove off.”

John smiled, but it did nothing to ease the tension in his chest. What if that was what Mary thought? He cleared his throat, “Do you think he’s dead?”

Mary sighed, her brown eyes full of sorrow, “Yes John,” she said finally, “I do.”

The world was spinning, threatening to tear itself apart. Part of John wondered why this bothered him so much: he had always suspected that Mary thought Sherlock had died, and it did not bother him that no one else believed him. However, to hear it like this, right now… was she trying to make him forget? Was one pole trying to destroy the other, throwing the entire, delicate system back into chaos?

He would not allow it. Sherlock would never be erased. Mind reeling, he turned to go before he lost it completely.

“John!”

Mary’s hand was on his shoulder, forcing him to turn towards her. She took a step closer to him. John could smell her perfume; he had bought it for her. He wanted desperately to leave, to run for his life, but his legs refused to obey him.

“John Hamish Watson,” Mary said gravely, “It’s true, I do not think Sherlock is alive…”

It was like a physical blow to the chest. Why was she repeating it? How could she not know how much it hurt?

“But,” and there was something in her voice that made John look up. Mary was smiling, a small, enchanting smile that seemed to say a million things at once, “That does not mean I do not want to spend the rest of my life waiting for him with you.”

***

The wedding was small, just their few remaining relatives and close friends. They both preferred it that way.

The best man was, unfortunately, still absent.

“You know something, Doctor Watson?” John murmured into his wife’s (how he loved the sound of that word) ear as the guests ate and chatted at the reception.

Mary smiled, “What’s that, Doctor Watson?”

“I positively _adore_ you.”

She laughed, “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.”

“I mean it though,” John murmured earnestly, “With all my heart.”

Mary laid her head on John’s shoulder. The weight was warm and comforting: “That’s why I love you, John,” she said softly, “You’re the only man I’ve met whose heart is big enough for two.”

***

Mary moved into 221B. Their wedding photo found a place next to the skull on the mantelpiece. Her set of the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe took up residence on the bookshelf next to Sherlock’s chemistry books and sheet music. Her photograph of the Thames at sunset hung in one of the few empty spaces on the wall. Sherlock’s bedroom remained untouched.

It was a pleasant mix, John decided, Mary and Sherlock, Sherlock and Mary, combining into something strange and eclectic and beautiful that could only be described as…home.

***

“You alright?”

John jumped; he had not noticed Mary come up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. She squeezed him a little tighter when she realized why John had been standing purposelessly in the middle of the living room for the past three minutes; he was staring at Sherlock’s violin.

It still happened sometimes. John would be going about his day when he would see or hear something that would remind him of his best friend, and he would stop as memories of past adventures and questions about Sherlock’s current exploits overcame him.

“Two years, three months, and seven days,” he said quietly, still staring at the beloved instrument.

Another squeeze. “I know.”

“I worry,” John admitted, “He never told me exactly what he did the first time…what he saw...but he had scars where he didn’t before…and sometimes, when he was sleeping…he would scream…and I worry…”

Another squeeze, tighter this time, “I know, John,” she whispered, “But he is strong. You know that.”

“But what if,” John mumbled, “What if when he finishes, he thinks I’ve forgotten. What if he thinks that I’ve moved on and don’t want him back anymore, so he stays away forever and stays alone and it destroys him…”

“He won’t think that.”

“No one can ever know what he’s thinking.”

A pause. “You should write a book,” Mary said finally.

John frowned in surprise, “What?”

“A book. You should write a book. About him, about you, your adventures, his funny habits, everything…even though you can’t communicate, he’ll definitely see it or hear about it, and he’ll know you haven’t forgotten.”

“I have the blog.”

“There’s a lot you never put in the blog. You told me so yourself, and people will want to read it…I’m sure _Sherlock_ would want to read it, when it comes to that.”

“Great. That’s what we need, Sherlock Holmes to think _more_ of himself.”

***

The title was the publisher’s choice: _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_.

The dedication page was John’s choice: “To the man himself. From the man still waiting for him to come home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. Your feedback is always appreciated. :)


	3. A Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was only a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I finished writing this, I realized that there are some ideas and themes that could be perceived as being somewhat religious. If you want to look at it from that perspective, that is absolutely fine, but please don't feel like you have to see it that way. No matter your religious outlook, this story is about things that are eternal...things like great fiction and even greater friendships. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading.

“What will you name him?”

John blinked in surprise. He knew that Mycroft knew, quite possibly before he did, that Mary was pregnant, but he had not expected the Elder Holmes to care enough to bring it up during tea. “We were thinking James,” he said finally.

“James,” Mycroft repeated slowly, “Mary’s Father’s name.” The unspoken question hung between them: _Why not Sherlock?_

John raised an eyebrow, “I always thought it was weird to name children after people who are still alive.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly, but John could practically _see_ the approval radiating off him, “I quite agree.”

***

His full name was James Charles Watson. They made room for the crib in Sherlock’s room, next to his bed, but changed nothing else about it. If, when Sherlock came home, he minded sharing a room, he could sleep on the couch. It was what he did most of the time anyway.

Then John blinked, and James was starting school, proudly wearing a backpack that was nearly as big as he was. He blinked again, and his son was a gangly preteen playing football with his mates.

Another blink and James was heading off to University, determined to be a doctor like his parents.

And then and James was bringing over a young woman who introduced herself as Lizzie, and she was so pleased to finally meet them, and she thought that August would be a lovely time for a wedding, didn’t they agree?

The next moment James was placing a pink bundle in John’s arms, and John laid his eyes on the most beautiful thing in the world. Her name was Meredith…his granddaughter.

Now John is sitting in his familiar armchair, and Lizzie is taking seventeen-year-old Meredith shopping, and James is checking his pulse, because John has been out of the hospital for barely a week and the only reason he is not there now is because it really does not matter where he is anymore, so he wants to be home.

“It went so fast,” he murmurs.

James withdraws his hand and leans back in the armchair…not Sherlock’s…no one sits in Sherlock’s…the other one…the one he and Mary had bought just after they were married.

Mary…

She left him three months ago…the last in a series of goodbyes that had punctuated those terrible, wonderful years. First Mrs. Hudson, then Mike, then Lestrade, then Molly, then even Mycroft.

It happened nearly a year ago, now. John had made his way slowly up to the apartment. He needed a cane again, and this limp was certainly not psychosomatic. He was just trying to decide whether he and Mycroft should talk about the smiley face on the wall or recount stories of body parts in the fridge when he noticed that, for the first time in nearly forty years, Mycroft was not sitting in his usual seat, pouring tea for both of them.

Anthea was.

John stopped, “What are you doing here?”

She looked up, and it occurred to John that she was still indecently beautiful for someone her age: “Mr. Holmes cannot make it today,” she said simply, “Please sit down.”

John frowned. Mycroft had never missed their teatime, even in the midst of international conflicts, “And why not?”

Anthea sighed, and, for the first time, John saw her disinterested mask fall, revealing the real Anthea, or whatever her name was, and the real Anthea was ready to fall apart with grief.

John sat down. Anthea poured tea with barely trembling hands.

                “When did it happen?” John asked quietly as he accepted his cup.

                “Last night, in his home. It was… peaceful.”

“Was he…” John began. His voice trailed off, so he tried again, “He wasn’t…alone?”

Anthea shook her head, “His wife and daughter were with him.”

“His wh…” John looked up. A gold ring was hanging on a chain from Anthea’s neck.

Strangely enough, the only thing John could think to do was laugh, “I hit on you the first time we met!”

Anthea smiled, “Yes, we both found that rather amusing.”

“Does Sherlock know?”

“Naturally,” Anthea said, “He was the only other one who ever did. Everyone knew Mycroft had one weakness, but if they realized he actually had _two_ …” her voice trailed off, “But everyone can know now.”

“I’m sorry.” John said quietly.

Anthea nodded. “He wanted me to give you something,” she said, pulling a small envelope out of her purse, “It was the last thing he wrote…before…”

John accepted the envelope and carefully slid it open. Inside was a single sheet of stationary with three words written in a precise, albeit shaking, hand.

_Keep waiting John._

_-MH_

They spoke of two Holmes’ that day.

 

It was harder to wait after that, but John did not, could not, give up. After Mycroft died, he knew there was not much time left, but that was all right, because Sherlock would come.

He always did.

 

Finally, after falling asleep at his side for four decades, one morning Mary did not wake up with him.

Three days later John was staring at his wife’s grave.

“Just the two of us now,” John said to the man he was sure was watching him from behind a tree, as he had done all those years ago, “And you’d better come home fast, Sherlock, because now she’s gone…I won’t be able to last too much longer.”

_Don’t be silly, John_ , Mary’s voice chided in his ear, _You’ll always wait-- however long it takes-- we all knew that._

John smiled. Mary was always right.

“Fine, you git,” he said, “I’ll be waiting, you know that,” he sighed, “Just hurry up, alright?”

That was two months ago.

 

“Yes, it does,” James says.

His words snap John out of his reverie, “What does what?” he asks.

“Time, it moves very fast.”

“Oh,” he had said that, hadn’t he? “But it’s good too,” John smiles, “The years, the time, it was all _very_ good.”

James smiles and lays his hand on John’s own, “Do you want me to help you to bed?”

“No. I’m more comfortable here.” The bed is too big now, and besides, Sherlock is going to be home any day, any hour, and John is going to see him right the moment he walks through the door.

“Alright,” James says quietly. He gently squeezes John’s hand, “I love you, Dad.”

John smiles, “Love you too, son.”

***

He does not remember falling asleep. _Blasted old age_ , he thinks, _it makes you take all sorts of unwanted naps_. Annoyed, John opens his eyes, ready to chide James for letting him fall asleep.

Only James is not there.

“ _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ ,” a baritone voice drawls, “What kind of title is _that_?”

John looks across at the man in the overstuffed armchair who is now flipping idly through the pages of the book. Strangely enough, John feels no shock, or rage, or even glee at seeing his best friend for the first time in forty years. Perhaps it is not that strange; he had always known it was only a manner of time.

“It’s the title the publishers thought would sell the best,” he says, as if this was not their first conversation in forty years, “And you have to admit, it did.”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs, “Tenth edition. But that obviously has more to do with my genius and your writing ability, and not because of some idiot in the marketing department. _Adventures!_ ” he snaps, “It makes me sound like some sort of James Bond!”

“You know, most people would see that as a good thing.”

Sherlock merely sniffs and continues flipping through the book, “Although I rather like the dedication page.”

John rolls his eyes, “I told Mary we shouldn’t inflate your ego even more.”

Sherlock’s lips jaunt up in a smile, and he finally sets the book down. He looks around the flat; John knows he is cataloguing every minute change: “Mary Morstan Watson,” the detective murmurs.

“Yes,” John whispers, feeling as though he has been stabbed in the chest. All the pain, all the months and years and years of _waiting_ is catching up to him now. Sherlock is here. He came, just as John always knew he would, but Mary cannot meet him. “You were gone a long time,” he says finally.

Sherlock’s penetrating grey-blue eyes swiftly meet his own, and John sees the sorrow, the regret imbedded deep with them, a remorse even stronger than when he had returned the first time, if that was possible, “I know,” he sighs, “And I am sorry.”

“They’re all gone, you know. Lestrade, Molly, Mary, even Mycroft. I’m the only one left.”

To John’s astonishment, Sherlock shoots him his _I know so much more than you smile_ and shakes his head, “No, they’re not.”

“Yes, they are, Sherlock,” John sighs, “I went to the funerals.”

Sherlock--John can hardly believe it--rolls his eyes, “You forget how good I am at faking peoples’ deaths.”

“What do you mean?” John demands as a strange and ferocious mixture of wild fury and desperate hope suddenly engulf him.

Sherlock steeples his hands under his chin—how did that man still have such smooth skin? John wonders, and the same black hair…not even his scarf seems a day older: “You know exactly what I mean,” Sherlock says, “I needed their assistance.”

“And they came…just like that?”

“Of course.”

“Even _Mary_ ,” John blurts, “She hadn’t even _met_ you!”

“She was the hardest to convince,” Sherlock admits, “She refused to leave you, but she finally realized that I…needed her…if I was to succeed.”

“Then what about me?” John demands. The fury was finally there, bright and quiet and so very, very hot. They may be old men now, but John is certain he can still throw a decent punch.

Sherlock frowns, “What?”

“What about me!” John shouts, his voice quivering with rage, “You could have asked me! You could have asked me forty years ago, and you know I would have been by your side in a heartbeat!”

That same pained, regretful look shines in Sherlock’s eyes again, “I know.”

“Then why _didn’t_ you! Instead you tell everyone else: Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, Mary, _everyone_ , but you didn’t so much as write me, and I was the only one who still believed in you!”

“But don’t you _see_ ,” Sherlock says urgently, leaning forward in the armchair, “That’s exactly it! You were the only one who still believed in me, so you were the only one I could _trust_ to…”

“Trust to what?” John demands.

“Trust to wait for me this long,” Sherlock finishes quietly.

Silence falls between them. John looks carefully at his best friend, the best friend whom he has waited forty years for, the one who still manages to infuriate him in less than five minutes, and feels his anger drain away. Sherlock’s eyes are so open, so unguarded. They are the eyes of a child, the eyes of the lost little boy that Sherlock truly is, and always has been…and he is here…

Finally, John nods.

Sherlock smiles, that broad, excited grin that he only wears when he is caught up in the middle of a case. He bounds up— _How could an eighty-year-old man move like that?_ John wonders—“Well let’s go then!” Sherlock says impatiently, “What are you sitting around for?”

“Go where?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “It’s not done yet, _obviously_.”

“What isn’t?”

“The case!” Sherlock shouts in exasperation and glee, “Forty years and the puzzle keeps going! It is marvelous! Best case I have ever had, even better than Moriarty! And now that you’re here,” Sherlock’s eyes gleam with excitement; “Now that you’re here they will be the very best times we ever had! Now come on, we have got to get to Buckingham Palace in…” he checks his watch, “Fifteen minutes!”

“Sherlock, I _can’t_ ,” John sighs, “I don’t know how you managed it, but nobody else can live forty years without aging. I’ve got a cane again, and even you can’t get rid of this limp by making me run around London with you!”

Sherlock raises a conceited eyebrow, “Oh _can’t_ I?” Then, before John can react, he grabs the cane in question and dashes towards the door.

“SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock pauses, his eyes dancing with excitement, “Mary’s waiting outside.” Then, with a gleeful laugh, he dashes down the stairs.

He sits there for half a second, listening to the excited echoes of his best friend’s footsteps. Then John grins, jumps to his feet, and races after him.

 

_“But there can be no grave for Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson...Shall they not always live in Baker Street? Are they not there this moment, as one writes? Outside, the hansoms rattle through the rain, and Moriarty plans his latest devilry. Within, the sea-coal flames upon the hearth and Holmes and Watson take their well-won case...So they still live for all that love them well; in a romantic chamber of the heart, in a nostalgic country of the mind, where it is always 1895.”_

_-Vincent Starrett –The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes_

 


End file.
